


Nightmares

by Ruta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is tormented by nightmares and Sherlock finds a solution to the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

_The Laboratory is desert._

_Molly succeeds just in time to consider it an oddity that he is there._ _He appeared out of nowhere, in the manner of a magician with his tricks of prestige._

_The Boogeyman walks over to her with swinging steps, body and head swaying, the smile of a shark, the singsong cadence of the voice. "Molly-Polly. The pretty girl that nobody sees."_

_Molly shudders. Not for fear, is what she says to herself, but for disgust. She is not accustomed to hatred and she has never hated anyone with the same force with which she feels to hate Jim Moriarty. "The girl without a family. The girl who could see dead people and talking to them as friends. The girl," he says, stopping behind her, "who dared to get too close to something that doesn’t belong to her."_

_His breath is cool against the skin of his neck, mephitic. Cold as the cold metal of the scalpel between hers fingers; corrupted by the poison of his words bristling with thorns._

_Moriarty tells her what he will do, his plans for him. Brushes her throat with a finger, scratching. "I rip the sky from his eyes and cut off his wings.”_

_He shows it to her. Sherlock has his eyes bleeding; the marble face is bruised and lacerated. He tears blood from his eyes blind, without bulbs. That is not the worst. Sherlock’s ribs were broken, separated from the spine. “Blood Eagle. Is it poetic? As in the sagas of the north. I am the north wind that has burned his heart. See you his wings now? SEE YOU THEM?"_

_Molly screams with all the force of her lungs._

 

* * *

 

 

She screamed and woke up screaming. She had her face pressed into the pillow, her hands clawed at the sheets. The quilt, in the fury of her squirming, had been kicked and was on the floor. Molly was shaking. The bed’s other half was empty. For once she was glad of that. She hugged her legs and buried her nose into the recess of the left elbow, biting her lips. Meanwhile, she tried to drive away the last strands of dream, but those remained caught on.

_Nightmares. Nothing more._

Molly attempted to sleep. She couldn’t. She was terrified, in the darkness of unconsciousness, to see him again, that he put her in his web of lies and wickedness as an arachnid. And she, poor horsefly, could not help but succumb.

 _There were_ _gloomy nights, dark nights._

This was one of those.

* * *

 

_There were others._ _Peaceful nights, quiet nights._

Molly woke up with a gasp.

The nightmare was vivid, still inside her, swelled around like a miasma.

Toby was curled upon Sherlock's pillow, a whisker away from her nose. Stared at her, yellow eyes similar to amber pendants in the darkness of the bedroom, and with a big question mark to cross them.

Molly scratched its ear in a gesture distracted, instinctive, and then blindly grabbed the dressing gown that was on the edge of the bed. She slipped it hastily, pulled on her slippers.

 _A tea_ , she thought. A tea was what was necessary to her, would calm her nerves. _St. John's Wort_ _and valerian._

Over the corridor, the lights were still on. Molly didn’t need to seek a reason. The reason was there, hunched over the kitchen table.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice her, still involved in his experiment on lead poisoning. He alternated rumblings throat with explanations, in a low voice of which no one except him could understand the meaning.

Molly put the kettle on the fire, took the tin can which contained the herbs shredded from the shelf and sat down, rested her chin on hand, her elbow on the counter.

She fell asleep. A second before she was waiting that the kettle whistled, the next Sherlock shook her strongly. The kettle - the beautiful purple kettle that she had bought less than a month ago - had turned into something blackened and the kitchen was plagued by a smoke that smelled of burnt.

Minutes later, Mrs. Hudson reassured her. ("These things happen, dear. A good night's sleep and everything passes. Tomorrow it will seem silly. Now you sit here, as a good girl, while I prepare something that relaxes you. A cup of warm milk with a teaspoon of honey will sweeten your sleep.")

Molly, sitting in Sherlock’s chair and wrapped in a blanket, was silent, dejected after a myriad of stuttered excuses.

Sherlock had accepted hers "I'm sorry", he had taken note as if he didn’t know quite what to do with them. He was moving back and forth like a caged animal. He hadn’t made comments. He was frowning and regularly he brought the index and middle finger to his lips, punctuating.

Molly had learned that in the nervousness was his habit to do it: to parody the gestures of a smoked cigarette.

She covered her face with both hands. _How could this_ _happen? God, she was reduced so bad?_   "I'm a fool."

Sherlock ceased to retrace his steps restless. He turned back to look at her. "You can be many things, Molly, but stupid? No, never."

The intensity of his voice, as well as the look that he dedicated to her, warmed her soul. Because in the case of Sherlock amounted to the most gallant compliment she could be hoped to receive. Molly looked away and rubbed her eyes, finding them shiny. Damn, she was really badly reduced.

"Molly." It was clear as the sun that Sherlock had deduced hers thoughts. _Don’t be_ _absurd, Molly,_ seemed to say. "You suffer from a sleep deficit that has led to a predictable decompensating in your sleep cycle. Usually transient insomnia is caused by a sudden change of environment, depression or severe stress. You're scared and I deserve most of the blame."

Molly studied the way in which he had bowed his head, his expression of contrition and apology. He seemed ready to sprinkle his head with ashes. She put her knuckles over the lips, looking at him with narrowed eyes, instantly polished. "Enlighten me," she said with unusual harshness. "In which way the blame would fall on you?"

"Pretty simple." Sherlock nodded vigorously, and brought arms behind his back, in the pose disciplined and supple that he took during the argument of the inferred solutions.

Whole scene, emphasis and theatrical, according to John. "If you had not helped me to stage my suicide three years ago, now you sleep soundly, safe from the disquieting thought that you're blacklisted by a psychotic madman."

"It's not comforting as a perspective, no," Molly admitted with a sigh. She raised her eyes from the storyline of the carpet to meet those of Sherlock, transparent and rigorous. "So, you think I'm scared."

Sherlock gave a quick nod. "Understandably," he added with solicitude.

"That Moriarty has stolen my sleep," Molly summed in the exactly same tone.

"As I have already said, it's understandable."

Molly shook her head. "Deduction wrong. I’m not afraid that Moriarty might harm me." _Not physically._

Sherlock spun around to face her completely. "No?"

"No," replied Molly, resolute.

"Oh," Sherlock said, visibly frustrated.

"Oh, yeah."

"So... I missed some telltale clue?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his mouth curved already into a principle of grimace, annoyed by the error of assessment in which he had stumbled.

"Just one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's always something that escapes me."

Molly did lever on the feet and stood up, reaching in front of him and touching his chest, pointing with a smile that - she felt - was guilty and stirred in equal measure.

Sherlock looked for a moment at hers open hand on the white fabric of his shirt. "Me?"

Molly's smile rippled, became worried. Who knew how he would react? "You, yes. You are to disturb my sleep."

"What did I do to-" Sherlock began with obvious nuisance.

"You didn’t do anything, but now that Moriarty has returned isn’t difficult to imagine the most catastrophic scenarios." And here Molly looked at him, lazy and - she hoped - with unmistakable subtext. _Do you remember Bart’s roof_ _, yes?_ Sherlock would surely scolded her for hers inability to make puns.

"Molly." Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders. Along with his voice, rough and warm and solid, even the palms were lukewarm, such large that sometimes, in the past, Molly had feel like a little girl. "You have no reason to doubt that you are properly safe."

Molly frowned. She closed her eyes and the horror of the nightmare - only recurrent in the theme of torture inflicted to Sherlock - sprouted like a flower of blood on a battlefield. " _For you._ Catastrophic for you," she clarified in a broken voice. "I haven’t doubt to be safe because I have you, but you, you're safe? Who watching your back?"

She clenched her fists and waited anxiously a biting response from him that, however, never came. Probably without his real intention, Sherlock’s gaze darted to John’s chair.

"Predictable, but no," said Molly. She wriggled and turned away from him, surrounding the bust with hers arms. Suddenly, she felt a sharp cold, piercing. "We don’t protect you, not really. You wouldn’t let us do it. In this story we are helpers," the thought flew to Mycroft ( _and Deus ex machina_ ), "and as you fits the profile of the Dark Knight, remain the best among us, Sherlock. You're the hero that everyone dreams of having at side."

"You too. You are th ..." Sherlock hesitated, furrowed his brow, and then leveled soon after. "Witch of Endor? -" tried disastrously, in a questioning tone, "that anyone would want to have."

And Molly wanted to laugh heartily for that shabby attempt to find her a biblical equivalent. She couldn’t. The smile that drew together was a grin badly marked. "On their funeral, perhaps." She rubbed her temples, too tired to say or do anything, even for go back to bed. "Don’t say anything. That's okay." Better end it there, really. It seemed that her head was stuffed with cotton wool.

"In which world would be all right?" Sherlock said irritably.

Of course for him the issue was far from over. "Molly Hooper." Exasperation and concern were revealed on his face and Molly felt ashamed, but again she found that hers eyes were full of tears.

With a sudden leap, Sherlock was in front of her. He took her chin and lifted it up so that she looked at him, put his hands on the sides of hers face, his thumbs to rub her cheeks.

"I’m safe," he said slowly, adamant. "You are, John is, so is everyone else and as long as you will safe, so I will. So yes, you have a necessary role in the history. Keep it in mind and tell to your dreams that I'm not a hero and I'm perfectly fine, thank you." Sherlock leaned his forehead against hers, took a short breath, impatient that rattled him inside. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised and there was something fragile in his voice, as if she had rekindled the memory of a disturbance or a pain, appointing it. "I saw the world and I have satisfied my thirst for travel for many years to come."

Molly sniffed. A laugh like a sob slipped out. "Good to know."

Sherlock smiled and that smile asymmetrical, she thought, was the best of reassurance. He was so close that for Molly wasn’t hard to do what she did. She stood on tiptoe, clutched the lapels of his dressing gown and kissed him. It was a wet kiss, determined and poignant. One that meant a lot of what she felt. _Don’t you dare_ _die, you idiot or I could really become the Witch of Endor._

Sherlock replied with the same enthusiasm, grabbing her hips, holding her against him. When they parted, he rubbed his nose against her neck, ears and throat. He stroked her hair. "Molly," he merely said.

Molly was submerged by the tenderness, the softness of her feelings. She ran fingers through Sherlock’s hair, amazed at how they were soft to the touch, thick and the same elusive.

It was like touching the night, clutch the deepest blacks darkness around stars. The feeling was that: of disarming discovery and conquest. And yet, every day and every night, every kiss she felt less an explorer in a foreign land and much more a tenant that accustomed to the idea that this is the place where she want to spend the rest of her life.

"Oh-ooo-ho," Mrs. Hudson trilled , appearing on the doorstep with the cup of hot milk. "It’s not my intention to interrupt you two lovebirds, but dear Sherlock, Molly has had a bad experience. She needed calm and rest, not more unsettled emotions."

Molly laughed against Sherlock's shoulder, only slightly embarrassed for having been found with hands in the cookie jar.

Sherlock made an acute observation, along the lines of: _I'm perfectly capable of taking care of Molly, although everyone thinking the opposite;_ but expressed with a greater number of words, a grim tone and accompanied by a stinging smile.

"She's gone. Now you can stop doing the ostrich."

"I'm fine where I am."

A sigh. Molly heard it rise from his chest.

"As far undeniably pleasant, Mrs. Hudson was right. It’s not what you need."

"I thought you said you know how to take care of me."

"It's what I'm trying to do. You don’t make the task easy."

"Oh?" Molly moved away just enough for look him in face. She tried to imitate the modus operandi of film’s divas when seduced the beloved, usually the main male character.

Sherlock pulled away abruptly. He cleared his throat, his eyes widened.

 _Oh_. Dilated pupils, difficulty breathing, no visible redness. _Point_ _for you, Molly._

Sherlock gave her a look of warning. "If these are the consequences, I'm not sure that deprive you of a good night's sleep occasionally cannot be potentially profitable."

"Are you suggesting what I think?"

Sherlock looked at her from top to bottom, and although she was more than dressed, properly dressed, Molly blushed, as if she had plenty of bare skin, she was discovered in an inappropriate manner. "Don’t start something you cannot accomplish, Molly Hooper. You may discover that I am not at all patient with cases left in half. "

 _Oh,_ _Dear Lord. Were they flirting?_

"You're smiling." Sherlock frowned. "I must have mistaken my approach. What I meant is that-"

"I understand perfectly, Sherlock, which only makes me very, very happy." She hugged him.

Sherlock had to bend both knees to avoid falling for the recoil. "Increment of exuberance and hypersensitivity. Not that you're not quite emotional in the daily, but generally the lucidity puts a stop to your attacks. Molly, you need to sleep."

Hers smile withered. Despite everything, the idea intimidated her, besieged in the castle of bones that only fear could build: paradoxical.

"Let's go."

"What?" Molly blinked and stared at him, confused. "Where?"

Sherlock pulled her by the wrist with gruff kindness. "You to sleep, I will conduct an experiment on the difficulties detectable in the attempt to induce sleep to an individual who has suffered from deprivation of the latter."

He passed her the cup of warm milk that Mrs. Hudson had left on the table and then stopped in front of the library, in the section that he had reserved to her soon after her removal from hers old apartment. He tapped the book covers, focused in his quest. Finally he made a noise of approval, taking one.

Molly read the title page. It was Keats.

Once again Sherlock took her by the wrist, book in the other hand, bringing her along the corridor and into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him. "Go to bed, Molly and drink your milk."

Molly did as she was told. She took off her dressing gown and slipped under the covers. She drank, watched Sherlock casting out Toby, recapturing his place (Toby curled up at his feet, blowing for the hassle). He kicked his shoes and lay down on the bed beside her, majestically.

The bordeaux dressing gown opened like a holdover on the sides of his long legs. Sherlock crossed them, moistened his forefinger and thumb. He opened the book and began leafing through it. "Mmm. Ode to a Nightingale is suited to the situation, I think. " Sherlock glanced at her curiously. "Are not you going to take a more comfortable position? It’s said that facilitates the slumber."

Molly placed her cup on the table and settled beside him. "Can I?" she asked, and pointed to his arm, suddenly hesitant.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He simply open the arm, so that she rested her head on the pillow and pass it around hers back. He began to read.

After a while Molly found that sleep was the least of hers problems. Certainly the lassitude had made her to lose control over her own body, but Sherlock was reading to her and his voice... _God_ , his voice was soothing, but not that calming she would have prescribed to quite an anxious.

It was soft and seductive and melodious and low and pure poetry, musical and evocative. It was spreading around her, creating a picture painted by suggestion, inebriating as the landscapes that described.

Was all it was supposed to must have a voice. It was the voice of the singers and minstrels: Scheherazade who had made fall in love a king with the charm of hers stories or Orpheus who, according to legend, had obtained the power to tame the fiercest beasts through it.

Sherlock was reading to her and Molly felt the traction of the tension leave her, sliding.

In the numbness, troubles grew pale and only Sherlock remained: the intense blue of his eyes, his long, tapering fingers to caress her side gently, with indolence.

Sherlock was reading for her and the nightmares didn’t come, not that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Ever since I heard this marvel, I said to myself that I had to stick it somewhere.  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdphtMWjies  
> I hope you all had a nice weekend and that this will help you to find the charge to start the week on the right foot.  
> A hug to everyone :D  
> Ps: I had to increase the rating for one (!) line (the description of the torture inflicted on Sherlock). I don’t know if anybody cares, but for those who are curious, here is in what consisted.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_eagle


End file.
